Home
by Chipping
Summary: "And it's not his boy, not really, not by some sort of rule that he can figure out. Nevertheless, he can't release him. It's not his right, he knows that. But still, he can't release him." Walter thinks on both his boys, the two Peters.


**Home**

He can see the seams, the ones that pull at him everyday. They are fraying, loose and being tugged in every direction. He feels the universe in his hands, he feels it under his feet. It is crumbling, like sand drying.

Many years ago, the other boy, the one that really was his, asked, "What is death like, Dad? Does it feel at all?"

And, of course, at the time, he should have answered him directly, because the boy was ready to take death into his small, moist palms and claim it for his own. But that wouldn't be that case, he thought. He thought he could stop the flow of time, the he could reverse what was never his to reverse. It was a fever-induced thought, he deduced. He dismissed the question, waved his hand and said, "That is a feeling you needn't worry about, son. It's a feeling you should worry about when you're much older than me. Much older."

Much older, and here he was, a version of that boy. Much older. And he wants to tell him now, tell him what dying feels like. Because he's faced that feeling, knows it well, knows it like the thrum of his own pulse inside his chest.

The feeling: like the washing of blood from a head. Like the floor under your feet swept away like dust. Like every part of you on fire, tearing asunder. Perhaps not death when it happens to you, but when the one you loves dies. He knows that feeling very well, knows what it's like to stare into the fabric of your life and see it unraveling like a spool being rewound.

And it's not his boy, not really, not by some sort of rule that he can figure out. Nevertheless, he can't release him. It's not his right, he knows that. He knows all about rights, what you can change and what you can't. Because he has broken all those rules and because he has, the universe is transforming into a reflection of his very life. But still, he can't release him, and he knows he's selfish and ruining everything.

But still. He remembers teaching him algebra on the kitchen table. He remember walks through the park, describing to a very small boy the fauna that – given an apocalyptic event – could be eaten. Remembers the swirl of his fingerprint, halving an apple with him for a lazy Saturday snack, a pet frog (the boy's first experience with death, never knowing of his own), showing him the delicate wings of moth who had trapped itself in their porch light. He can remember it all, and even though it's not really his boy, well.

But now that boy is older and not at all a boy. He can see the smooth angle of his jaw, the flashing eyes of his mother, the one that was never his wife. Still, he cannot unclench his fist and so he finds himself reeling him in, unconsciously and without real reason.

_What does death feel like?_

Oh, it feels. He feels every second he thinks he just might lose him, for real this time. There is no going back, not now.

He catches him, one night, asleep at the lab, head resting against the wall and for a second he realizes, _this can't last forever_. None of it can. And it hurts, but there's something inside of him that he's given this boy and he doesn't think he can get it back. If he goes to the other side, it will be gone and he will never have it back.

"Stay," he whispers to the night air surrounding the two of them. He reaches, cautiously, and touches the crown of his head, which is shorn short. He has a birthmark on the side of his scalp, which the other did not have, and it takes him aback. He is selfish he knows, for he has had two, he knows that now, but still. It's irreversible. There's nothing he can do, because his whole heart, his whole being is in this person next to him. "Stay," he whispers and it sounds like a prayer, to something, someone.

The boy opens his eyes, and he sees the man. They both stare at each other for a second. The world is splitting at its seams and the universe will soon implode but now it is only the two of them and the sleepy quiet around them.

The boy smiles that half-smile of his and says, "Of course. I'm home. Of course, I'm staying."

He sees the beginning of the end, but it doesn't matter now, because he can see clearly the memory of a young boy running past him down a sidewalk laughing, many years ago, all the while the smile on his face saying, _Only so far, Dad. I'll only be so far enough away that you'll always be able to see me, always able to reach me._


End file.
